Better Not to Strike
by Ella F
Summary: It's been 9 months since Sherlock's Fall, and John is desperately trying to move on. However, the ghosts of his friend are not so easily shaken... Miles away, Sherlock contemplates his return to London, only to discover that John is not exactly the same companion he left behind. (Trying to add a twist to the 'reunion' concept, Dark John and Oblivious Sherlock)
1. Prologue: Pt 1

It had been nearly 9 months since Sherlock`s fall, and John had done little in ways of clearing their apartment. The skull, the violin, still rested in their old spot, collecting dust among the other antiquities that lined the shelves. John sat on the sofa and sent a text he knew his friend who never receive.``

_'Lestrade says there`s a case involving a triple homicide, you interested?'_

_-JW_

John waited by the phone for a long while before grabbing his cane and getting to his feet. A couple weeks after the accident his limp had returned, much to the worry of his psychiatrist. It didn't really bother him- only gave another excuse to remain cooped up in the apartment. John had hardly been outside the flat the past months, except for the occasional meeting with Lestrade and run-ins with Molly. He had quit his job at the clinic, though it hadn't made much of an impact on his lifestyle. Mrs. Hudson never came around to collect rent anymore, and he assumed it could only be Mycroft settling his debt every month. John had avoided Mycroft ever since their confrontation at the funeral when John had let his raw anger get the better of him.

John was past the pain of being reminded of Sherlock in the little things: He could grab a single mug for tea and not stop to remember how he used to always grab two; he could clear the kitchen table without catching his breath at the sight of each chemical burn that lined the surface. And so, on the good days, John could make it til noon before his first break down.

On a normal morning, John would sit and wallow in pity before hitting the drink, but today, something about the apartment was unsettling and irritating. After putting his cup away and glancing into the living room where his phone remained perched and silent, he decided he would take up Lestrade's offer and help in a case- the first one he would attend since Sherlock…left. Because that's what happened. John knew he was gone, but hadn't accepted that he couldn't come back.

Even so, John Watson grabbed his cane and left his coat, and hobbled down the stairs leaving his flat, and his ghosts, behind.

...

Sherlock found himself occasionally mulling over the potential life of Dr. John Watson. It had been 9 months, well over the average grieving time for most. The probable reality was that the good doctor would be dating some uninteresting and mundane women (boring), he would have started work up again (possibly even staying with the police instead of the medical clinic) and he would have more than likely moved out of their old flat at 221B Baker St. He knew he could check with Mycroft for precise updates on John's life, but he hated the idea of making his brother feel useful.

Mycroft, of course, knew that his brother was alive, and much to Sherlock's distaste, knew he couldn't have pulled off the suicide stunt without him. Even so, Sherlock refused to mend any more bridges, and contented himself with a solitary existence away from London.

But he wasn't contented, not even slightly. It bothered Sherlock that he hadn't memorize all the streets and alleyways in his new city. (The truth was, he hadn't really made an effort to try). He missed the familiarity of his shortcuts through London's backways and his connections through the homeless network. He missed his lab equipment and violin,-god how he missed his violin; He had nearly gone mad the first month trying to think without his wooden arm. Surprisingly however, was how well Sherlock was able to manage without his blogger. He would still talk out loud as if John was there, and found himself occasionally asking him for a pen or to pass his mobile. Whenever his mind began to wander to the sentimental moments with his flatmate, he could immediately dismiss and move them to the back of his mind. They were currently irrelevant. Still, he had to admit to himself that without his companion, he was much less pleased with life.

Soon, he told himself. Soon he could return to London, and soon he could see John Watson again. Mycroft would be near finished disposing of the last of Moriarty's men-the loyal ones anyways-, and the article explaining Sherlock's innocence would emerge at the 1 year anniversary of his death, just as he had planned. It was only a little longer living his uncomfortable life.

Just then he received another text from John, the second of that day.

His texts were typically simple questions or veiled comments on mundane life, and more often than not did they disregard the fact that Sherlock should in fact, be dead. Sherlock quite liked getting the messages. It made John feel all the more present.

_Lestrade assures me he hasn't seen a case this tricky in a few months._

_-JW_

Sherlock had to swallow the temptation to reply and put his phone back into his coat pocket. Considering he had to content himself with petty street crime to keep occupied, any sort of case would have made him a happy man.

Grabbing his scarf, Sherlock Holmes set out on another day of mundane observation, while trying to keep his mind from driving itself mad.

"Dull..."

He thought to himself, before shutting the door to his room behind him.


	2. Chapter 1

The crime scene was a disaster. Why I ever thought dead bodies would cheer me up, god knows- I wasn't Sherlock. The mystery didn't excite me, and I couldn't even muster up the sentiment to pity the three dead girls. There was no apparent cause of death upon review, and the ignorant silence that followed my evaluation only reminded me that I was very much alone among the police team.

After less than an hour I had already left, much to Greg's protests.

I felt the harsh sting of frosted air lingering on my fingers as I made my way back inside 221B; I never did get around to buying leather gloves. I supposed I could just take Sherlock's, he _had_ just left them on the dresser. As I reached out to grasp them, I imagined his reaction upon discovering his clothing missing. He'd probably stomp his way around the flat, yelling at the air and finally at myself until I'd admit I took them on impulse. Even after the numerous occasion of him 'confiscating' my laptop and using my phone, Sherlock never did like to share his things.

I breathed a deep sigh as a whisper in the back of my mind reminded me.  
'He's not coming home…'

That awful, heavy feeling returned to my chest at this reminder. Something like trapped adrenaline was bottling up inside of my rib cage, gnawing at the cold composure I was trying to keep. The shaking started again, like it always did. I gripped my cane, trying to steady and prepare myself for the hard chills that were bound to come. Whatever my psychiatrist was prescribing, it wasn't helping with the episodes at all.

There was once a time when I tried to keep up to date with which medication she was getting me on: Which could lead to dependency, which shouldn't be mixed with alcohol, but after so long, I had just stopped reading the labels altogether.

Still, I instinctively reached into my pocket and swallowed down two of the long, pale capsules. As I slipped the container back into my jeans, my fingers lingered on the keys of my phone. I could check, to see if he replied. Today might be the day.

The screen lite up to my inbox, revealing a thousand unread messages from Harry, a couple from Lestrade that I had managed to keep up to date with, and a few left over from Sara wondering when I'd be returning to work.  
My hands were just starting to shake when I clumsily typed out another message.

'Come on Sherlock, this case has got to be at least a seven. The least you can do is humour me with a response.'  
-JW

My thumb lingered on the 'send' key, and I felt the shaking escalate to my fingertips.  
"Dammnit, Sherlock!"  
I yelled out loud before throwing my phone across the room, not knowing if I sent the message or not.  
I slumped down to the couch and buried my head into my hands. I couldn't think straight when I got this upset. Why could I stand to stare at his empty chair and shuffle past his pile of case files every morning, but I couldn't handle the thought of his forgotten gloves?

Chills began to creep their way up my spine and into my palms, even after I had sat down. I closed my fingers around my hair, pulling at the roots to relieve the tension in my hands. I heard Mycroft's voice in my head.  
_"You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady. You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson, you miss it.."_

'Welcome back…' I whispered under my breath.


	3. Chapter 2

The harsh light filtering in from the living room window stirred me awake the next morning. I had apparently collapsed on the couch, which was a bit of a step backwards- I could usually make it the bedroom.

Yesterday's episode had dissolved in a mixture of liquor and blackouts, and as ashamed as I was, I'd have rather spent it sprawled unconscious on the cushions than pulling out my hair. The entire flat still had that itching, unsettling feeling creeping in the air, but my head ached too much to considering leaving it.

When I finally mustered up the energy to sit up, I was met with a horrifying sight. Papers, pictures, every piece of case work Sherlock had ever worked on, was scattered throughout the entirety of the flat. I would never be able to put these cases back together. Some of the pages were stained and crumpled, while some had altogether been ripped to shreds by unsteady hands. They had always seemed disorganized, scattered and clumped on every surface in the flat, but I knew that there was still a method to the madness. A beautiful and intelligent kind of madness I could never hope to recreate.

And I had destroyed it in a drunken fit. Fantastic.

I breathed in, and slowly talked myself down from a panic. I told myself that it was all going to be okay. Sherlock likely had every article and piece of information hidden away in his mind palace, should he ever find himself needing it again. He would still be angry- no doubt about that- but we could get by.  
I altogether ignored the nagging thought that was forming in mind, about to tell me that Sherlock wouldn't remember anything anymore…

I stumbled my way up from the couch and began collecting what was left of the old case files.

__"Tsk tsk John Watson, always forgetting your cane when your mind is busy."

I felt my face drain of colour as the dark voice passed by. Here it was, in waking life, humming in my very ear. The voice of Sherlock Holmes.

I should have been ecstatic, to hear the voice of someone lost so long ago, but the feeling was that of dread. It was not unlike a dream, when you are faced with a departed love one, and yet experience no thrilled reaction at their appearance. They are dead, and yet, they are there.

I turned to view the empty room but that lingering prickle in the air told me I wasn't alone. I glanced back to the couch and saw the cane resting crookedly against the armrest. The voice was right. As second nature, I reached into my pocket to grab a couple of white capsules, but the bottle stared at me, empty. The prescription was supposed to last me the month, had I simply lost count of the days?

"Oh no, no, Doctor, you should know _never_ to self-medicate."

It was Sherlock's voice, but it's tone was…off. It was slow and exaggerated and didn't sound at all like my friend. I stared up at the empty air and shivered, wide eyed and slack jawed, under the presence's gaze. I could feel it weaving it's way behind me as it whispered on the back of my neck, until I was once again greeted with silence.

Then there I sat, crouched and alone among the endless pages of the life Sherlock had left me behind with, and I couldn't stop the violent shakes from starting once more.

...

I went to meet with the psychiatrist that morning.  
I felt like a child reciting their lines for the school play.  
I didn't mention the voice, or the cane.  
I hobbled in with my crutch, nodded my head, and said exactly what was expected of me.  
She let me go early with a sensitive air and a quiet glance.

...

When I made it back to the flat, I found all the papers stacked neatly inside of a large plastic bin, its lid propped up against the side.  
Mrs. Hudson, the old angel.  
I was more than grateful for the kind gesture, but I couldn't manage to thank her for her efforts. Instead, I headed straight for the kitchen and grabbed the bottles of malt that lay waiting inside of the cupboards.  
I violently threw them into the sink and watched their contents spill away out of sight.

_'I'm not going to have these blackouts anymore…'_

I told myself.

_'….Sherlock would be appalled."_


	4. Chapter 3

_John Watson had been dry two weeks, but by Mycroft's observations, he hadn't become any less senseless when it came to his regular hysterics. The soldier locked himself away from the world, and could still be heard screaming at his roommate's ghost at all hours of the night. Whether John was sleep-talking through his night terrors, or fully awake for these episodes, Mycroft couldn't be sure. The one thing that was for certain was that the health of John Watson was becoming truly concerning._

_Mycroft wondered how long he could let his brother drag this affair out._

_He had tried contacting Sherlock on numerous occasions, but he knew his younger brother's pride meant more to him than his help. All that Mycroft could do was keep close surveillance, and hope that the doctor could fight his way out of another war._

_….._

The three of us are all back at the pool, and I am wearing death beneath a feathered coat. I lung for Moriarty and pull him into a threatening embrace; Sherlock looks at us with desperate eyes.  
"Sherlock, run!" I yell. Time is running out.  
He just stares. I don't know what else to say, how I can convince him. I want to beg but I cannot form thoughts, or words. I can only stare back.  
I watch Sherlock slowly and cautiously raise his own pistol to his temple. God, no.  
"No…No, Sherlock!" I scream, and I can't tear my eyes away as he presses down on the trigger and disappears beneath a flash of red and a crowd of people.  
We are on the street beneath St. Bartholomew's. Crimson is staining Sherlock's features and matting his hair, and Moriarty's sing-song voice threatens my sanity as it laughs in my ear.  
"You've rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson…"

I woke up to the cold morning, and yet I found a kind of nostalgic comfort at finding myself in my very own bed. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but it almost felt like an memory, from a different time. I noticed, with surprise, how hot i was - It appeared that I had broken into a sweat in my sleep. I wiped my forehead with the back of my arm and rose from the covers.

The nightmares were simply my own imagining-old army fears seeping into modern life. They could be left behind on the pillow.

On mornings such as these, I was sometimes lucky enough to be awoken by the loud crashes of Sherlock hurdling his science equipment about in the living room. I could hear the frustrated murmurs of my flatmate as he pillaged his way through formulas and chemicals, and I breathed in a deep and relaxing lungful of air. Sherlock and I were safe.

When I came downstairs I found that Sherlock had already left the kitchen and was probably off hiding away in his bedroom. I fixed myself a cup of tea, and took to the table.  
Feeling a quick buzz from my pocket, I removed the mobile.  
Over 15 unread messages…when did that happen? I quickly scrolled through.

Harry.  
Harry.  
Lestrade.  
Harry.  
Molly.  
Mycroft?  
Harry.

The pattern went on. Sherlock's voice came to my ear.  
"You're worrying them you know, never leaving the flat."  
I rolled my eyes, but kept my head down as I finishing scrolling through the phone's menu.  
"Yes, well, once you tell me what case we're working on, I'd be happy to head out and be of assistance."

Just then, a knock from the door nearly gave me a start. Someone coming to the flat, perhaps a client? It had been a while since we had a case outside of the London Police Department.  
I rose to my feet to answer, but a tall figure was already standing straight between the doorway.

"Ah, Mycroft."  
I greeted the man with my normal briskness.  
"I'm afraid you've just missed Sherlock, he's not around this morning."  
I lied, only because I knew how much Sherlock hated his brother's visits.  
The man kept his face tight, but I could see a quiet concern resting somewhere between his brows.  
He opened his mouth to speak and then reconsidered, before closing and reopening it a second time.  
"I'm not looking for Sherlock, John."  
The two of us stared down one another. I had never had a fondness for Mycroft, and it bothered me even more when he appeared unannounced and uninvited.

"John…what day is it?"  
I stared even harder at the man, nearly dumbfounded.  
"What **day** is it?"  
I replied, equally confused as I was irritated.  
"What day is it? Mycroft did you seriously come all the way over to our flat to inquire about the date?"  
I scoffed and gave a short, humorless laugh before turning away. Mycroft's voice caught me as I entered the kitchen.

"Your cane is gone."  
I froze and turned to face him again.  
"Your gait is looking very strong."  
What the hell was he on about this morning?  
"Uh, yeah. It's been good for a while now, thanks." I replied, more than irritated now, angry.

"John just tell me what day it is.."  
Anger was turning into fury, and I already felt like lashing out at the bitter man opposite me. However, I tried to keep my composure just a bit longer. I shifted over, uncomfortably.  
"Thursday."  
I said, abrupt and final.

The staring continued, but only for a short while before Mycroft spoke again.  
"John, I think it's best you come with me. We have some great details to …"  
I didn't let him finish. I lunged into him, hard and direct, and knocked down from his high stature. How **dare** he. How dare he come into **our** flat and tell me I needed to leave. I wasn't leaving. I wouldn't.  
As I recoiled my first back to strike, I felt arms grab hold of my body, my legs, my head. I fought against the pressure and the strength but there were too many limbs to escape. I thought I could hear Mycroft telling me some nonsense about relaxing, and I even think I could hear soft, startled noises coming from Mrs. Hudson in the hallway.

I couldn't feel the prick of the needle, I could only fight against the unexplained darkness that began to consume my senses.

Buried and numb, I felt myself grow limp, and then finally disappear.

**Note: Hope it's not too confusing, but the main character ****_is_**** tad senseless. Things should start to fall into place soon, and I can promise there is going to be some Sherlock in next chapter !**


	5. Chapter 4

My lead eyelids refused to open for several hours after I awoke. Alone in the dark, I tried to compose a mental image of my whereabouts.  
To start with, I was warm. Very warm, in fact. I could feel soft cotton sheets layered on top and a firm mattress- a bed then, but not my own. I could hear no sound except for my own isolated breathing- so I was alone for the time being. I could see nothing but the yellow patterns dancing behind my closed eyes- that probably meant that I was under florescent lighting.

I smiled to myself as I heard Sherlock compliment my amateur deductions as best he could.  
_"Good, John. Really good. Of course, you've missed everything of importance, but…"_  
It was then I heard the soft patter of footsteps approaching, and my eyes shot open on their own accord.

I was in a white sterile room, much like any other hospital chamber. I had visited numerous rooms such as these in my medical days, but it had been a number of years since I had been a patient in one of them.  
As I sat up in the cot, I realized my bare arms. I wasn't wearing a record bracelet, so I couldn't be a patient. But there was something on my ankle….  
Something soft, but restricting. I couldn't adjust my legs at all. Lifting the covers, I was met with a surge of panic and dismay. Cuffs. There were cuffs on both of my legs, keeping me secured to the bed.  
I was restrained.

_My head is pounding from the club to the temple I received earlier. I am in pain, but mostly I am terrified. I do not want to be. I want to be strong for myself and strong for Sarah, but I am staring down a gun barrel and I do not want to die. I do not want to die.  
I should have known that The Black Lotus would come after us.  
Sarah looks at me with wild and horrified eyes. Why can't I save her? Because I'm not a soldier anymore, and I'm not Sherlock Holmes.  
"Please…please you have to believe me." I try to keep my voice steady but it cracks all the same.  
The gun does not move from my face.  
"I'm Not Sherlock Holmes!" I scream.  
A finger inches towards the trigger, but I can't move. I am tied down. I am restrained._

I thrashed and struggled against my bonds. They will kill me, I am in danger. I do not know where I am anymore and I do not try to find out. I need to escape. I need to survive.  
Sounds are all around me at once- footsteps, commands, hard hands pushing against my efforts. I am again swallowed in darkness.

...

I wake up in the same fashion as before, only this time I am not alone. There is a second body breathing somewhere in the room. When my eyes decide to open, Mycroft sits opposite me. As soon as I look at him, he begins to talk clearly and without pause. I can do nothing but listen.

"Dr. Watson, you are in a hospital. Don't fret, you are not injured. You have, however, already thrown two fits and gave one of our nurses quite the impressive bruise. I suggest you relax and allow me to explain your…situation."

I tried to burn Mycroft with my eyes as I stared, blank faced, at the tall man.

"Why am I in the hospital if there's nothing wrong with me."  
It wasn't so much a question as much as an observation.

Mycroft had a familiar disappointed look etched on his brow. I felt a wave of cool rage flood my veins at his silence. My emotion must have bled through into my features, because the look of disappointment on Mycroft's face changed into a look of worry.

"John…."

"Where's Sherlock?" I cut into his speech.

Suddenly, Mycroft's face hardened. Something in his entire stance solidified. He stood up and stared me down with an intensity that matched my own.

"John Watson, you watched Sherlock Holmes fall from the rooftop of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital almost ten months ago. You have since been experiencing delusions and are posing a risk to you and your….loved ones."

I felt myself flinch at every word that was spoken, and part of me, somewhere deep and repressed, began to crack and crumble at this man's story. But he was telling lies.

"I know you've been seeing him."

Mycroft stiffened, even more so than before, and raised his chin to give himself a more impressive air.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

The anger welled inside of me.  
"Yes…you..do" I muttered through clenched teeth.  
Mycroft knew he was here, and he was patronizing me, making me seem like the fool.  
"You can bloody-well see him too, Mycroft!"  
I screamed at the composed man opposite me.  
"You can see him and you know he's here as well as I do!"  
I knocked the tray of food I hadn't noticed until now off the bedside, and tried to claw my way out of the sheets.  
**"Just leave him alone, Mycroft! HE DOESN'T NEED US! He doesn't need our help! So Stop it! STOP!"|**

**...**

Once John Watson was sedated, Mycroft went out to meet his brother in the hallway. Sherlock had returned to London some days ago by Mycroft's request, which he normally would have ignored, but the earnest way his brother had muttered 'John Watson' over the phone had sent Sherlock into a mad rush home.

Mycroft saw his brother facing the wall, pale and thin as before, but with a much more fragile air.

"There's no possible way he could know I'm here…"

Sherlock whispered. There was definite pain behind his words, but only Mycroft would be able to recognize it.

"I tried to tell you, Sherlock. He's … unwell."

Sherlock gave a bitter scoff and fumbled with taking his gloves off. John Watson was 'unwell' when he and Sherlock had first met, but that soon changed.

"I fixed him once before, Mycroft. He just needs to get back to work. "

Sherlock was almost in as much denial as John, but Mycroft tried his best to be soft.

"It's not the simple. John is not only experiencing advanced symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, but also mild schizophrenia. These kinds of mental illnesses don't just disappear, Sherlock. He'll likely be plagued with them for the rest of his life."

Sherlock stiffened, and then reached into his pocket to pull out a single cigarette.  
He paused, before lighting up and inhaling a deep waft of smoke.

"John's not that foolish."


End file.
